


The Hustle

by cognomen, MayGlenn



Series: Greatest Hits of the Seventies [6]
Category: Starsky & Hutch
Genre: Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Even Progressive 70s Dudes Fall Victim to Toxic Masculinity, Hand Jobs, Handcuffs, Light BDSM, Light Bondage, M/M, Mild Painplay, Rough Sex, Roughhousing, Tag to Kill Huggy Bear, Tag to Omaha Tiger, Wrestling as Foreplay
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-22
Updated: 2018-05-28
Packaged: 2019-05-09 19:58:43
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 8,687
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14722646
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cognomen/pseuds/cognomen, https://archiveofourown.org/users/MayGlenn/pseuds/MayGlenn
Summary: Starsky shoves all the furniture in Hutch’s living room out of the way, creating his own ‘ring’ of couches and end tables and a coffee table, and claps his hands together, grinning at Hutch when he enters to see the wreckage of his internal decor.“You ready for round two, partner? I won’t go easy on you this time,” Starsky says, giving Hutch a suggestive grin.Starsky had been grumpy all afternoon once they’d wrapped up the case at the Ms. Forbes’ wrestling ring, especially after Tessie and Iggy had their hands all over him. Hutch thought it was pretty funny, which he guessed didn’t help, and which was why Hutch had brought Starsky pizza for dinner, as a peace offering, for being a good sport.(And for looking so cute while being pushed around.)





	1. Chapter 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Tag to "Omaha Tiger"

Starsky shoves all the furniture in Hutch’s living room out of the way, creating his own ‘ring’ of couches and end tables and a coffee table, and claps his hands together, grinning at Hutch when he enters to see the wreckage of his internal decor.

“You ready for round two, partner? I won’t go easy on you this time,” Starsky says, giving Hutch a suggestive grin.  

Hutch pauses with his groceries and dinner in the doorway. “Baby, I got pizza for you, I thought you’d want a nice relaxing evening?” 

Starsky had been grumpy all afternoon once they’d wrapped up the case at the Ms. Forbes’ wrestling ring, especially after Tessie and Iggy had their hands all over him. Hutch thought it was pretty funny, which he guessed didn’t help, and which was why he had brought Starsky pizza for dinner, as a peace offering, for being a good sport.

(And for looking so cute while being pushed around.) 

“What the hell did you do to my living room?” Hutch asks, though he’s willing to play along, slotting the pizza into the oven and setting the groceries down on the table that’s been shoved against the wall. 

“It’s a ring now,” Starsky says, proudly. “I want a second chance at the college champion who threw me on the mat yesterday. I mean, everybody gets a re-match, right?”

He gets into a position more appropriate for starting a sumo match, but that’s meant to indicate he’s ready for Hutch to come at him, though he’d been briefly distracted by the pizza smell. Truth be told, he had been glad to escape Iggy’s grasp alive. He didn’t mind  _ Hutch _ manhandling him (in fact, he usually rather liked it), but giant Russian gorillas were another thing entirely. 

Hutch lets out a sigh in a laugh. 

“Oh, buddy, now you’re in for it. You know I went  _ easy  _ on you before,” Hutch says, making his way around the circle, stalking Starsky, as he unbuckles his holster and lays his gun aside. He’s putting on a little bit of a show, though there’s really no sexy way to take off boots, so he has to lean against the wall to haul them off. “Three pins and then will you eat dinner? You get cranky when you’re hungry.” 

“I went easy on  _ you _ before,” Starsky says, already in sock-feet, though he keeps his eyes trained on Hutch as he strips down, especially liking the fluid panther-like motion it takes to unsling the heavy holster from his shoulder. “And yeah, three pins then dinner. Maybe I wouldn’t get cranky if I wasn’t deprived all the time!”

“ _ Deprived _ ,” Hutch laughs, moving in on Starsky with enough purpose that he sees the split-second of delighted panic that is half animal thrill and half childlike glee in Starsky’s eyes that mirrors his own.

But they square off like men, Starsky with more gumption than skill, and Hutch feints low before snagging an arm, locking the elbow and shoulder so he can hook one foot around Starsky's leg. Wrestling in jeans and a shirt he really doesn't want to ruin is something of a challenge, but there is nothing he doesn't like about getting his hands on Starsky after, it seems like, everyone else has today. 

Honestly, Starsky  _ likes _ Hutch’s strength, and how it feels for them to both really test how much force they can exert. They aren’t trying to hurt each other, just overpower, and the stretch and strain and how they rub on each other is nothing Starsky would even begin to complain about. 

For a few moments they just grunt and groan and shift for position and Hutch almost has Starsky pinned before he finds the leverage point to flip Hutch over, though they’re still tangled and interlocked, limbs shifting into nearly impossible positions before Starsky manages to press Hutch flat against the floor. 

“Hah!” he grins at Hutch. 

“Ah, no, no, no! It’s not! I’m not!” Hutch cries, straining off the floor, trying to lie about it. “It’s only cause of the carpet...oh fine.  _ One _ .” 

Starsky lets him up, and Hutch grumbles something about not knowing Starsky would actually take this  _ seriously _ , but it’s all to save face (and doesn’t actually do it all too well). As they circle this time, he takes off his belt, sure that it was keeping him from bending properly, and he points at Starsky warningly. “You’re gonna get it this time, mister.” 

“You say that like I'm not gonna want it,” Starsky answers, amused by Hutch’s bluster. He jumps in this time, getting his arms around Hutch’s middle and refusing to let go. 

This time, they go over more slowly, first onto the couch and then the floor, and somewhere in the middle of grappling, Starsky gets his hands on Hutch’s ass and squeezes, because it feels tight and firm when he's straining to get Starsky’s uncooperative body where he wants it.

“What now, hot shot?” Starsky murmurs, just before Hutch practically bends him in half, and Starsky groans in a far more lewd way than is normally called for, impressed with the demonstration of strength.

Hutch exploits this weakness, knocking Starsky’s elbow and knee out from under him and slamming him to the floor, pinning him neatly and probably harder than was necessary. 

“This isn’t the little leagues, partner,” he gasps, his mouth mere inches from Starsky’s. “One-one.” 

Starsky doesn't kiss him for once, instead grinning ferally at Hutch before they disengage and start again.This time, Starsky refuses to be pinned; having been paying attention the first two bouts, he slips out of Hutch’s grip whenever he tries to lever Starsy over, and then finally gets him face down on the rug with his weight arranged firmly over Hutch’s hips and his arms pinned behind his back, though his jeans don’t leave any room for there to be any doubt about how hard it makes him to be there. 

He leans down, panting hot air against the back of Hutch’s neck and lets his voice drop down in his chest, pitched low. “You sure you don’t want a few extra innings?”

“Shit!” Hutch is absolutely breathless, writhing and aching but definitely pinned. Hutch may have the technique but Starsky still knows how to  _ fight _ , and he’s all tightly coiled muscle and he likes fighting dirty. It’s...kind of arousing, how quickly Hutch finds himself on his face in his own living room, or it is because it’s Starsky. 

“You know, I was in the mood before you mixed your metaphors,” he grumbles, a valiant attempt to not sound as turned on as he feels. 

But when Starsky rakes his teeth over the bare, sweaty skin there, threatening to leave a mark above the collar line, a little whine escapes Hutch unbidden, and the jig is up. 

“You said baseball first,” Starsky reminds.

He kisses the side of Hutch’s neck, and then just behind his ear, transferring both of Hutch’s wrists to one of his hands, so he can pull Hutch’s shirt—now thoroughly untucked—up his back and get skin on skin contact. He briefly considers the handcuffs he knows are somewhere with Hutch’s holster, but discards the idea when just digging his thumb into Hutch’s lower back to work the muscles there gets him to go loose and pliant and moan obscenely. Starsky wraps the shirt around Hutch’s wrists and gives him a warning pat, telling him to stay still, before he gets his hand between Hutch’s hips and the carpet.

“Yeah, but—I—” Hutch tries, but trails off on another groan. Shit, he’s really easy for this. He’d been thinking about some permutation of this all day, of course, though he didn’t think Starsky would actually pin him like this unless he  _ let  _ him. Being proved wrong is as thrilling as it is frustrating. 

Starsky knows how to get Hutch’s pants open pretty well by now, even his more fashionable ones with the button flies, and he gets his hand in on Hutch’s cock to stroke him hard without letting him up, even if the carpet’s rubbing hard on his knuckles. “Winner takes all, right?”

It’s not  _ quite _ asking permission, but if Hutch isn’t comfortable, it gives him an out. 

“ _ Fine _ ,” Hutch grinds out, like he’s just letting Starsky get away with this and not desperately enjoying it. “I’m still sure you cheat— _ ohh _ !”

Starsky digs his knee down into the back of Hutch’s thigh to remind him who’s in charge, fist tight around Hutch’s cock  as he thumbs over the head to encourage more of the reaction he wants to hear, which is Hutch desperate for it. For  _ him _ , and what Starsky can give him that no one else can.

Hutch’s hips buck and hands twitch, tangling up in his shirt. “Yeah, Starsky, right there. Anything. I’m yours.” 

Yeah, well  _ that  _ didn’t take long. 

“I know you are,” Starsky assures him, sounding confident and warm with it. He lifts his weight long enough to pull Hutch’s pants down past his hips, though he leaves them tangled around his ankles before he gets his hands back on Hutch, rubbing over his ass hard enough to leave a faint pink flush where he digs his fingers in, and then gives him a solid thump there to warn him to stay still. “I gotta go get a couple things we need. Don’t move.”

Hutch gasps like he’s come up for air, and he really doesn’t want to dribble precome all over his carpet but he stays, feeling very vulnerable like this. “You better not take too long!” 

Starsky only takes long enough to fetch the lube and condoms from Hutch’s drawer, and to appreciate the flushed and helpless figure Hutch presents spread out on his own living room floor with his pants around his ankles and his hands still behind his back. 

“You look gorgeous,” Starsky tells him, dropping down behind Hutch again, straddling his thighs and leaning down to kiss his tailbone. He presses a bite a little higher, as he works his fingers slick and gets the lube warm between his hands, before he starts rubbing just behind Hutch’s balls at first, teasing and light over his entrance, and then over his balls in a rolling, confident motion. “Laid out like this all for me, huh?”

“Not for long if you don’t do something,” Hutch fusses, getting one hand free, though he only grips a handful of the carpet with it. Starsky already knows the map of his body, however, knows just how to make him go boneless, weak with pleasure, and he does this by just teasing at his entrance, over his perineum and his balls, ignoring his poor cock, and Hutch doesn’t know why he’s so easy for this (except he knows exactly why, and that reason’s name is David Starsky). He whines, hand crawling across the carpet like it’s going to escape without him.

Starsky takes full advantage of Hutch’s impatience (a rare emotion on his partner) and leans over him, pushing his free hand down against his back to hold him still while he plunges two fingers into him with no other precursor and enjoys the way Hutch twists and practically spits with it, shoving  _ back _ instead of away, and Starsky rewards him by hooking his fingers down working over his prostate the way he knows  _ he _ enjoys when the tables are turned. It’s rare he gets Hutch so impatient like this, and Starsky savors every second of it, of the way Hutch  _ responds _ to him. 

“That something enough?” Starsky wonders, leaning into it  just a little more before he starts to work in a third finger into him, in a rush because he doubts Hutch will let him take his time. 

“Damn it, Starsky, yes,” Hutch gasps, closing his eyes and clenching his fists in an attempt to keep still while fantasizing about throwing Starsky over and controlling the thrust and pitch and speed of everything. But maybe Starsky had always been the better wrestler, untrained or no, and had only ever and would only ever just  _ let _ him win, like—

Starsky bears down on his prostate with three fingers now, until he jolts out of his thoughts with a shout. Maybe he’s thinking too much. “I’m ready, Starsky, just— _ please _ —”

“Yeah?” Starsky asks, prompting, and then sits back just enough to get his own jeans undone, and get a condom on. Hutch is squirming with need, and Starsky needs both hands so he tries to reassure his partner in the seconds they aren’t touching the way Hutch would like them to be. “Don’t worry, I got you.”

When he’s satisfied that he’s good and slick, he lifts Hutch’s hips off the floor a little, and Hutch practically jumps up onto his elbows, leaving Starsky grinning before the expression fades to concentration as he begins to guide himself in. He loves when Hutch is eager for him, ready and willing like they’re both teenagers who can’t get enough of each other, and maybe that’s true in a lot of ways.

Hutch is loose and relaxed for him, a real marvel as Starsky slides home in one long, slow thrust before he eases one hand down onto the carpet at Hutch’s side, leaning over his back and getting his teeth into Hutch’s shoulder, the other hand fisting tight around his cock, but still until he’s ready to move. 

“Starsky,” Hutch moans, dropping his head low between his elbows and focusing on relaxing, like this is the pinnacle of meditation, though he yelps when Starsky bites him, and tenses again. He growls, startled out of his focus, “Just fuck me, will you?”

He's a very fussy bottom, and he knows that, and somehow Starsky still loves him. Hutch doesn't know why, but he's grateful. He tries rocking his hips, but Starsky only crushes his dick in a warning grip, and he goes still. “Please.”

“You are so demanding,” Starsky breathes against his skin, pressing a kiss to his shoulder over the bruise, before he turns his head to leave a matching mark on Hutch’s other shoulder, fixing his teeth as he starts to thrust. He means to take his time, means to draw it out, but Hutch barely has to groan and sigh and all Starsky’s plans go out the window.

He bears down with his teeth and pushes hard with his hips, punishing and quick for both of them, and any time he even thinks about letting up, Hutch is making some kind of obscene noise that eggs Starsky on further, until he’s dizzy and seeing stars and he hopes Hutch is gonna cum some time in the next thirty seconds because anything beyond that is tenuous at best. 

Hutch isn't loud in bed, he  _ isn't _ , in fact girls (and guys) have told him he's kind of quiet, but with Starsky it's like he becomes this whole other person, or maybe it’s the real him that no one else can touch, because he sounds like a porno film right now, adding to the slapping noises of flesh on flesh, to Starsky’s own grunts and gasps and the sucking noise he makes on his neck that runs a shiver through his entire body. And when he comes he screams Starsky's name, screams it like he's falling and only his partner can catch him. 

He’s there to do it, too, even as Hutch goes soft and slack in the aftermath, Starsky has his arm around Hutch’s middle through the last few thrusts that he manages before he tips over afterward, muffling his grunts against Hutch’s skin before they both go still; together, held tight, for a moment just locked and in possession of themselves and each other. 

Then he breaks the seal of his mouth with a gasp for air, and negotiates them back down onto the rug so they can catch their breath. He presses a kiss to Hutch’s cheek as they lay on their sides in the aftermath, and then chuckles helplessly, giddy and happy in the rush of endorphins.“I think I win this round too, huh?”

“Yeah,” Hutch admits, throwing up his hand in defeat, air cooling stinging over the spot on his neck. Everything feels tingly and good. “You can wrestle me any day, partner.”

Then Hutch gets up on his elbows again. 

“Jesus, my carpet,” Hutch groans, when he realizes he's laying in a puddle of his own come. 

Starsky laughs, and it fades into a hiss as they draw apart and he gets a hand on the base of his cock to slide the condom off so he can throw it away. “Your carpet’ll be fine. Baking soda.”

He heaves himself up, and pulls his pants back up before tossing the trash and helping Hutch up. “Besides, the couch will sit over it anyway when we put it back, right?”

Hutch groans, getting to his hands and knees with effort. He points at Starsky. “You're helping me put this back together,  and clean the carpet, before you go.”

But right now, he's hungry, and they right their clothes and even though his ass is sore and slick with lube, Hutch has to admit it kinda feels good. A little dirty, in a good way. “Maybe a rematch, too. Best three out of five?”

“After dinner,” Starsky agrees, reaching out to squeeze Hutch’s hand, and leaning in to kiss his cheek before he goes to wash his hands at the kitchen sink. “What’s on the pizza?”

“Ugh, well, I was suckered into getting pepperoni because I thought I was going to have to cheer you up,” Hutch laughs. “But now I know better.”

He unpacks his groceries to make a salad, and fills his plate with green stuff and makes Starsky eat some, too, pulling out, “Don’t make me a liar to your mother,” when he fusses. And because he is still hungry even after the salad, Hutch really enjoys the pizza, and even has a second slice, though he’s sure it’s going to shave a year off the 120 he plans to live. 

Starsky of course, finishes the rest of the pie. He’s had a long day, and gotten at least as much exercise as it took to burn through the equivalent calories, so he figures he’s good. “Hey, you know something? It’s not so bad when you throw me around. But it’s even better when it’s mutual.”

Hutch chuckles, and eats a third and last slice, he tells himself, only to keep Starsky from eating  _ six _ . If Starsky is going to die of a heart attack at fifty, the last seventy years are going to be boring, anyway. 

“So you  _ are  _ giving me a chance to win back my title?” he says, sipping his beer and resting his feet in Starsky’s lap, even though sitting at that angle does kind of ache. “Maybe we should wait on cleaning up the carpet, after all.” 


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Tag to "Kill Huggy Bear"

Starsky deals with Hutch’s post-fight grouchiness for the rest of the evening, before he does his best to make up for it in the best way he knows how; healthy food at Hutch’s favourite sit down place.

“I’m sorry partner,” Starsky says, chewing his way through a spinach salad. “I thought for sure with all your extra trace minerals and vitamins you had that guy.”

“You could have come in at any time,” Hutch grouses, again, like they haven’t been through this already, and like it was Starsky’s fault. And it was, though Starsky had only _not_ come to his rescue because he had been boasting, which _also_ made him mad. He had been acting like a jackass, and got his ass handed to him like a jackass, and every time Starsky checked on him, now, he was just teasing him.

There wasn’t enough spinach in all the world to cure his mood.

“I thought you liked getting roughed up a little?” Starsky continues, though he knows he’s needling now. His tone softens some, and he reaches out with his foot under the table to press his ankle to the inside of Hutch’s calf. “Hey, you still came out on top. He didn’t really hurt you, did he?”

Hutch throws down his fork, disdainfully, and sits back, glaring at his food. “No, I’m _fine_.”

And now he’s acting like a child. Sure, good way to recoup your masculinity, Hutchinson.

Also, he’s not even enjoying his salad, even though it’s got everything he loves on it and Starsky is looking at him like a crazy person for even putting it in his mouth. Normally Starsky’s disdain for his kind of food at least amuses Hutch. He sighs and picks up his fork.

Starsky lets him be while they eat, figuring maybe if Hutch just gets some food in him, he’ll feel better. He’s hungry enough to finish his salad even though he doesn’t really enjoy it, and even manages to put a dent in whatever flax-and-chia concoction they put in front of him to drink, though in his opinion it could at least use some banana.

“You wanna swing by the gym and hit the bag on the way home?” Starsky asks. “You know, you didn’t do half bad, I was impressed by the way you threw that guy down on top of his car.”

“It doesn’t help, you teasing me,” Hutch pouts. “That guy was huge! He was—”

But they’ve rehearsed this already, and Hutch cuts himself off. He focuses in on his salad, enjoying the protein and good fat from the fish and the avocado.

“I just want to go home tonight,” he says, softer, though he’ll be relying on Starsky to drop him off. Maybe a good mope by himself is what he needs.

“Just promise me you won’t brood on it all night,” Starsky says, but he’s willing to take Hutch home if that’s what he wants, and leave him alone. “But let’s stop and get dessert, huh? I know a place that makes a pretty good peanut butter, caramel and banana ice cream shake. Just like Elvis used to love.”

“That seems like...a lot,” Hutch says, but his appetite has finally arrived now that he’s halfway done with his salad, and he begins to enjoy it. “You sure I can’t tempt you with a gluten-conscious chocolate cookie from here?”

But ice cream does sound good.

Maybe his inner manbaby is craving dairy.

“No one wants a gluten conscious cookie for dessert, not even you,” Starsky tells Hutch, settling the tab with cash and putting his arm around Hutch’s shoulders as they head out to the car. “I can have them mix a little impregnated wheat germ into your milkshake if you’re not feeling like dinner punished you enough.”

“They’re...good,” Hutch defends, weakly, but, well. “Guess it’s not like eating healthy matters. Maybe I _should_ hit the gym. Bulk up, eat nothing but meat, 3,000 calories a day, get all huge...”

He’s managing it with mostly a straight face, but he keeps an eye on Starsky for his reaction.  

“Huge, huh?” Starsky plays along. “You’d give up some of that flexibility you like so much, but it might be worth it if instead of having to put the back wheels up on chocks, you could just bench-press my car when I needed to do work underneath it, huh?”

That startles a laugh out of Hutch, the image of himself as big as those goons, lifting Starsky’s car as though it were nothing. Starsky _would_ probably like that, wouldn’t he? He seems to like displays of strength.

Starsky grins at him, holding open the passenger side door galantly for Hutch before he slides in on the driver’s side. “You know what the difference is, between them and you? I find _you_ attractive. You got it where it counts, partner.”

Hutch had been halfway to telling himself he should actually lift weights more when Starsky surprises him again, enough to blush before he can think of anything to say. “Yeah, well…”

And just like that, his bad mood is cured—so easily that Hutch really has to wonder if his ego is wrapped up in what Starsky thinks of him.

 _‘I know your pride, Hutch,’_ he recalls, with sharp clarity.

_‘You can forget my pride!’_

“At least I don’t take any ‘supplements’ that shrink my dick,” Hutch says, still blushing.

Starsky laughs. “I happen to be very fond of your dick, so yeah, that’s on the plus side. Besides,  you can still bend _me_ in half on most days. Let’s get a milkshake. That’ll bulk both of us up.”

He starts the car, and then pauses to giggle. “As long as you don’t start on The Big D.”

Hutch splutters with laughter. “I already _got_ the Big D.”

…

Armed with their milkshakes—Hutch’s is dark with chocolate, because, why not?—he sent it back twice, actually, because they hadn’t put enough chocolate in, and if he’s going to shave a year off his life he’s going to do so with something _tasty_ —Starsky drives him home, and Hutch, holding the milkshakes, pats Starsky’s knee with a cold hand. “Come on, come inside, won’t you? I have some whiskey we could add to these…”

Okay, _all_ the rules are out the window today, apparently.

“I think rum would be more appropriate, but I know you and your whiskey fingers,” Starsky says, throwing the car into park and balancing his shake as they both get out of the Torino and he gives it an affectionate pat on his way into Hutch’s place. “So are you asking me to spend the night, officially?”

Hutch leans in with a flirty smile, like he’s going in for a kiss in the open like this, and at the last minute snatches Starsky’s keys. “I am. Unless you think you can take these back.”

He slides the keys into his corduroys and gives Starsky a wink, sipping on his milkshake. It’s...actually really good, and doing wonders for his mood, but he wasn’t kidding about the whiskey.

“I think I _have_ rum, if you’d prefer,” he says, rummaging around in his liquor cabinet.  

“I feel like rum and peanut butter are a better match,” Starsky says, watching his keys disappear into Hutch’s pocket with a little consternation, but  what was he really going to complain about? It wasn’t like he wouldn’t have spent the night even if Hutch hadn’t taken his keys. He takes a long sip of his milkshake and then holds it out for Hutch to top off with whatever alcohol he finally lands on.

Hutch has a little white rum left, and he upends the bottle into Starsky’s milkshake. There’s...slightly more than he expects.

“Whoops,” Hutch says, trying to recover, but by then the damage is already done. “Well. If you get drunk I promise I won’t take advantage.” He winks.

“You can’t take advantage of the willing,” Starsky gives it a stir, tries, and gives an appreciative arch of his eyebrows. “Yeah, that’s pretty good.”

Hutch has put a shot of whiskey into his, and stirred it, and takes a big slurp. The bitterness of the chocolate goes really nice with the whiskey, and he thinks he could make a better one on his own, with the low-sugar vegan ice cream he sometimes splurges on. “ _Oh_. Oh, no, that’s really something. Try this.”

Starsky does, surprised by how into this Hutch is, but pleased by it too. He tries a sip of Hutch’s and…actually has to agree with him. _Somehow_ in this particular milkshake, the whiskey tastes good. “Hutch, I think you’re onto something! Now we know what to do with our retirement; milkshake bar. You could tell Huggy, and ask for a cut.”

“That's what you wanna do, instead of buying a boat?” Hutch laughs. “It's either a boat or a bar, when cops retire, right? I'll buy the boat, you buy the bar, and then we both have both!”

“We could put the bar on the boat,” Starsky suggests, alluringly. He’s sure he read something somewhere that sugar helped alcohol metabolize faster, but he’s feeling a little silly, and faster than he expected.

“Now that sounds dangerous,” Hutch says, like he's saying, _now that sounds fun_. The whiskey couldn't have gotten to him this fast, so Hutch concedes it must be the sugar making him feel almost punch-drunk. He's going to have a terrible crash later, probably, but right now he feels great.

Hutch is smiling at Starksy as they finish slurping their drinks, eagerly now.

“I think you should try to get your keys back from me,”  Hutch suggests, like he's asking if Starsky wants to play checkers, and, okay, maybe the whiskey _did_ hit him a little fast.

“You think I should…?” Starsky asks, curiously, but then he realizes what Hutch is _actually_ asking. Not for Starsky to make an earnest attempt to get home, but for him to make an earnest attempt at the game of ‘get into Hutch’s pocket’. He sets the last few sips of his milkshake aside, eyes bright, and motions for Hutch to do the same before he lunges to pin him against his own kitchen counter.

“I mean, only if you think you—oof!” Hutch’s hip collides with the counter when Starsky is just suddenly on him, gone from a rhetorical conversation to a reality in under a second, and trying to climb on top of him to pin him to the counter.

But Hutch knows the move, predicts it, and shifts so that Starsky loses his balance and Hutch can send him to the floor—more gently than if he were a perp, but not without remorse. He laughs and begins working Starsky into a pin so he can kiss him into submission.

Starsky is almost surprised to find himself there, on the floor at Hutch’s feet, but he doesn’t have time to really be surprised before Hutch is on top of him. His mouth tastes like chocolate and whiskey and Starsky starts to sneak his fingers into Hutch’s pocket before he gets hold of Starsky’s hands and starts to pin them.

“Hey!” Starsky complains. “How’m I supposed to get the keys if I can’t use my hands?”

“Try harder,” Hutch laughs, and Starsky squirms free and they’re just giggling and rolling around, sloppy holds and groping grapples that make them laugh even more. “Maybe we need to lean up some of that muscle.”

Finally Hutch wedges him between the cabinets and the floor, and braces himself on the fridge to throw his whole weight on top of Starsky’s squirming legs so he can hold his wrists. But Starksy is strong and hard to hold onto, and Hutch works instinctively, so it's almost a surprise to both of them when Starsky ends up with his hands cuffed together.

“Maybe you can use your mouth,” Hutch suggests, grinning breathlessly.

“Hey, that’s no fair!” Starsky protests, squirming, but he’s no match for Hutch plus the refrigerator, so all he can do is try to get his hands into a better position. “Where’d you even have cuffs, anyway?”

He should know better, they both keep them usually pretty handy, but Starsky hadn’t expected this. It’s all he can do to get his legs around Hutch’s middle and cross the ankles, holding on for all he’s worth.

“In my boot,” Hutch grunts, trying to peel Starsky off of him, but his trousers are starting to slide off along with Starsky, and Hutch yelps, because the floor is cold on his ass.

But it only spurs his resolve, and he kisses him, hard and full of teeth, before he wrestles Starsky back over, and gets his hands above his head and kneels on Starsky’s spread legs, digging his shins in painfully when Starsky tries to move. “This is what you _get_ for letting me fight that gorilla by myself.”

“ _What_?” Starsky asks, surprised that has even come up again, but he’s pinned completely and he can hardly argue. The linoleum pressing into his cheek is cold, and Hutch is a heavy weight over his back, pushing him flat. “You’re still mad about losing that fight?”

“I’m _not_ mad about losing a fight to a guy twice my size—” Hutch growls, though he’s aware that the goon has grown in the telling, “—I’m mad you stood there and laughed!”

“You’d just been bragging,” Starsky chuckles, but it ends in a grunt, and he lets the sentence hang as Hutch sends a shiver down Starsky’s spine with a warning press of his body.

Hutch’s hurt feelings dissipate easily with the alcohol, for the moment, anyway, and he sits up and laughs, though he knows he’s probably hurting Starsky’s knees like this. “Guess turnaround is fair play, huh?”  

“Guess so,” Starsky says, shifting to try and get comfortable. “What kinda turnabout did you have in mind, exactly?”

“The kind where you let me take out all these pent-up aggressions on you,” Hutch purrs in his ear, carding a hand through Starsky’s hair, “and you _like_ it.”

Hutch chuckles. “And I give you my...Big D.”

Starsky’s face crumples into laughter  against the tile, and he supposes he’s okay with absorbing a little pent up aggression. Besides, he feels loopy and permissive from the alcohol, and they’ve both had more than enough of fighting today.

“That’s real generous of you,” Starsky laughs, shifting to turn his head the other way. “Are you gonna let me see it first, or just stick me by surprise like the doctor does with vaccines?”

Hutch laughs and kisses Starsky’s cheek. “Oh, I don’t think it’ll be a surprise. You’ll know when it’s, ah, coming.”

Hutch wheezes at his joke, and gets up abruptly, grabbing Starsky by one leg and dragging him across the floor and into the bedroom. He knows Starsky likes being manhandled, and Hutch is in the mood to be rough, so he hauls Starsky up on his feet and into a kiss. “You stop me if you need to, huh? If you can’t handle it?”

He’s teasing, a little, but he’s also checking.

“If I can’t _handle_ it,” Starsky scoffs, kicking his shoes off after stepping on the heels to dislodge them, leaving him in sock feet. “I accept your challenge, partner.”

Starsky knows what it means; if he needs to stop he can use the color system, and he trusts Hutch will listen to him, just the way he listens to Hutch. It’s about to get intense, and Starsky grins at him, showing one eye-tooth in a crooked challenge to answer Hutch’s dare. He genuinely likes when Hutch puts him to his limits.

“But if the worst you got is a little rug burn, I’ll be fine,” Starsky assures him.

Hutch huffs and knocks Starsky backwards onto his bed to wrestle him out of his pants: these are easy, and come off with his underwear, even though Starsky is back to squirming and Hutch has to spread his weight out over him to keep him still. Hutch wants to see the shape of his mouth in bruises on every part of Starsky’s body where Hutch was bruised by Lou Malinda’s thugs. He wants him to feel him every time he sits down. He wants to wipe his everpresent smug grin off his face and make him moan.

So he starts in on Starsky’s neck, first, biting into the meat of his shoulder and hanging on for dear life, going to the edge of when Starsky’s groan turns into a gasp of actual pain, and staying there, biting down and creating suction with his lips.

Starsky’s shirt won’t come off like this, but it bunches around his wrists when Hutch hauls it up over his head, the only thing that makes him break the seal of his lips on Starsky’s neck.

“You taste so good, maybe I’ll never let you go,” he says, and finds a new place to bite further down the shoulder, one hand curling around Starsky’s cock while the other curls around his neck. Every time Starsky so much as twitches, Hutch gives both a warning squeeze. “And you _look_ so good, just like this.”  

“Yeah? At your mercy?” Starsky says, his cuffed hands extended over his head, letting Hutch mark him up without making any attempt to push him away. It hurts, but he kinda likes it, every new pinch making his cock jump in a way he couldn’t exactly deny with Hutch’s hand right there on it. “I like it when you take control, baby.”

Hutch pretty much keeps him still, warning him every time Starsky starts to roll up into something he likes, so instead he lets Hutch wring gasps out of him, sighs and pleas, mostly nonsense words but all encouragement—“Yeah, there, _oh_ ,” —and intakes of breath on the moments Hutch relents. It feels like the slow-wind of something clockwork, and Hutch knows exactly how to make him tick.

The transition from Hutch wanting to hurt-love his partner into wanting to love-hurt him is so slow that when the mood has fully changed, he can't even see where one ended and the other began, and can't be embarrassed or ashamed. It's changed from being about him to being about Starsky.

By then he has one hand tangled up in Starsky’s hair, and with the other hand he's knuckle deep in Starsky’s ass, and both his nipples have been sucked purple and puffy. He's biting small but bright marks all down one side of his body, while bearing down on his prostate with his thumb, wondering if he can make Starsky come just from this.

If he’d asked the question, Starsky wouldn’t have been able to answer him. It’s like Hutch is touching hot wires to his body, jolting and manipulating Starsky with ease.

“Gonna fuck you til you can't walk, pretty boy,” he promises, warm and syrupy, his mouth tasting like Starsky. And he could deliver on that, too, since he hadn't really worried about stretching Starsky much, so when he rolls on a condom and presses into him, his cock is doing most of the work.

Starsky grunts and pants, but the sounds that come out of him are half chuckles, and the chain on the handcuffs rattles as he reaches above himself to get ahold of the pillow and hang on. He manages, voice breathless and distant and desperate, to say, “You’re the pretty one. _I’m_ the tough one.”

Anything else he was going to say drowns out in a low groan and he hikes his hips up to give Hutch a better angle, struggling to surge his body into it, holding onto the pillow hard. His body feels bruised in all the right ways, marked up so that whenever he moves he can feel Hutch everywhere, aching under his skin, and his cock is harder than he remembers it being for a long time and practically untouched as Hutch stretches him to the point of soreness, but never agony.

“I dunno. I think you're very pretty like this,” Hutch murmurs, tracing his fingers over bruises in the shape of his mouth and scratches in the shape of his fingers. Starsky isn't fighting him anymore, and Hutch lift his hips so the angle is right and his cock drags along his prostate when he fucks him. “You like this, don't you? You like when I mark you up and make you feel it. You like letting me make you pretty for me, so the next girl who takes your clothes off can see and imagine the wildcat you must've been with before, huh?”

“Wildcat’s about right,” Starsky purrs, looking straight at Hutch so there’s no question who Starsky’s thinking of

Hutch chuckles, leaning down to kiss Starsky, to kiss his neck over the bruises and his chin and finally capture his mouth in a kiss as he begins to move.

He still hasn't touched Starsky’s cock hardly, and yet his partner is hard and leaking. He _is_ pretty like this, Hutch thinks to himself, skin glistening with sweat, curls askew, muscles rippling. Paul Muni’s an insult to this dark-haired god in his arms. “Gorgeous. Handsome. Strong. I could just fuck you for days. Maybe someday I will. Just keep you here to enjoy when I want to.”

About the only time Starsky’s impatience gives way is right here, when Hutch asks it from him. Instead of fighting for faster, or resisting the idea of being made to wait, he relaxes into it, lets himself go loose and just _feel_ everything, the way the slide has gradually gotten easier but not faster, the way Hutch feels (and looks, of course Starsky is watching him) as their bodies move together.

“Any time you want,” Starsky breathes back, but he knows the promise only means so much when it comes to _this_ time, because he’s already riding right along the edge of release and all he does to get there is let go, and it pours out of him. Slow and easy, stretched out like it could go on forever. Starsky surrenders to it, body working through in slow pulses that pour out his release onto his chest and belly and changes the pattern of his breaths. He feels warm and comfortable here, but keyed in. Attuned to Hutch, watching him through half-lidded eyes as he follows Starsky over, neither of them ever more than a half step or two out of pace.

“That's it, that's it, oh you are a dirty boy,” Hutch praises, kissing him again and massaging his release into his skin like a massage oil, while he is still fucking him. His release is even slower, and he takes his time, pinning Starsky’s hands to the bed above him when he knows he goes oversensitive and tender, making him take it, knowing he can. “It's okay, I've got you, gorgeous.”

Starsky gets his fingers around Hutch’s pinning hand and bears down, holds on as they both ride it out, and it's too much and just enough as the stimulation keeps coming, but the endurance is almost as pleasurable as the rest.

Hutch has folded over him, kissing him gently, touching him softly, and fucking him without any hurry until, like Starsky, it just pours out of him. He doesn't maintain the roughness unless he works at it, wanting to go gentle and tender here at the end, pressing kisses and praises into his partner as he empties into him. He sighs, relaxing. “Love you, beautiful. Love you, baby. Thank you.”

“Hutch,” Starsky breathes, like he's about to say something smart, but he doesn't, pressing his body up against Hutch’s instead, since his hands are trapped. “Hey.”

When Hutch is looking at him, looking him in the eyes and they both know they mean it without having to say the words, he reaffirms them anyway. “I love you too."

Then, a pause, a wicked grin. “But I think you were talking up your Big D a second ago and I may need a second chance to properly judge exactly what qualifies as big…”

Hutch laughs, kissing Starsky again as love bubbles back and forth between them. He says in his favorite (terrible) Texan accent, “You think you can go for another ride, city slicker?”

If nothing else, he does it just for the way Starsky rolls his eyes at him and groans while he unearths the keys for the handcuffs. It takes some doing to find Starsky’s hands under all the bunched up material, but soon he’s free.

With a groan, though, Hutch gets up. “Let me get something to clean up with. And something for your—ah—”

He hadn’t quite drawn blood anywhere, but some of the bruises and scratches were quite raw.

Starsky lances out a hand now that he’s free from the cuffs and yanks  Hutch back down, flipping him over and down into the mattress, pinning him in place with a grin. “Don’t worry too much about my ‘ah’, partner, I already got my eyes on revenge.”

“ _Starsky—_!” Hutch exclaims, though he can’t get any further before Starsky gets his hands into Hutch’s hair and pulls, just a little, just enough to pull their mouths together, even though they’re both filthy and Starsky is sore and bitten in half a hundred places, grinding his bruises right against Hutch’s skin.

“Ooh, yer a wild little colt, ain’t ya?” Hutch says when their lips part, and to his surprise and delight, Starsky is half-hard again already, or still. Seeing Starsky needy like this, feeling him so desperate, is helping him rally again. “Round two already? Maybe I shoulda left you lassoed.”

“Hutch,” Starsky says, trying to keep a straight face, tilting Hutch’s head back with his grip in his hair to close his teeth against Hutch’s neck, warning. “You can’t pull that cowboy trick on me. I know you’re practically from _Canada_.”

Hutch groans, beginning to melt in Starsky’s hold, going still at the warning of teeth on his neck.

Reaching down between them Starsky gets his hand on Hutch’s dick, though he has to pause to discard the used condom when it threatens to make a mess, and he’s glad they’re still pretty close to his bedside table. He eases Hutch along in a rush, fast this time, knowing _he’ll_ be at least as sensitive as he left Starsky.

“Besides, everybody knows you can’t break a horse twice,” Starsky says, matter-of-fact, still coaxing Hutch hard.

“I’m guessing whoever said that didn’t know you,” Hutch hisses, arching up into Starsky’s grip, holding onto his hips. He glances down at Starsky’s hand covering his cock and grins: “So...what’s the verdict? Big enough?”

“Texas sized,” Starsky decides, as if he were the sole judge. Maybe he’s the only one qualified to be.

“I guess that’s alright,” Hutch laughs. He’s dropped the Texan accent, wincing slightly as this is going too fast, and he gets a hand on Starsky, too, to pay him back in kind.

“One of these days I’m going to put handcuffs on you and see how you feel after,” Starsky grunts, but he’s not in any mood to draw this out, instead he runs his hand over Hutch’s cheek, down his chest, presses on his belly briefly, all the places he hadn’t gotten touch when Hutch had him practically hogtied.

He follows these with his mouth, gentle, but keeps his strokes hard, short, pushing Hutch faster toward the edge than his body likes to take. Payback, for all that endurance he’d asked of Starsky.

“You _have_ done that,” Hutch says, amused, loving how tactile Starsky is, and maybe, he decides, it’s too cruel of him to ever cuff him. “Or, well. With rope. Say, maybe _you’re_ the real cowboy.”

“That is some weird spaghetti western fantasy you have going on,” Starsky chuckles.

Hutch is loose and permissive and giggly, and they’re reaching a peak again together, stroking each other quickly. Hutch shivers at every touch, immediately responsive to Starsky, like he’s conducting electricity between them. “Starsky, God, baby, you—”

“Yeah, Hutch,” Starsky answers, eyes closed now and focused, like it’s going to punch its way out of him this time as he pushes for it faster than he should. “‘S better when I can touch you everywhere, huh? Just like this.”

He grunts and they come together, messy and sweaty and noisy, mouths fitting together for a kiss that laughs and pants desperately for air.

Hutch gets an arm around the back of Starsky’s neck and holds him close until the kiss goes lazy, soft, loving. And now he _really_ doesn’t want to move, no matter what the mess looks like in the morning.

There’s no vote against him, as Starsky just kisses Hutch a few more times, soft and drifting, before his left hand reaches out and pats around to get ahold of one of Hutch’s blankets, yanking it untucked to pull it over them and thoroughly unmaking the bed as he does so, but he’s never cared before, and he’s not about to start now. His hands are tracing slow paths over Hutch’s body, pressing his fingertips to all the places that mirror where he’s bitten, just absent and grounding touches until they start to drift to sleep.

A great part of Hutch knows there's something special here that he'll never have with anyone else. He does a lot of performing for other people, a lot of pretending, even with people he loves. Maybe Starsky is genuine all the time, but Hutch isn't—except with Starsky. He knows Starsky will love him even at his worst, his most bratty, his weirdest. And that's easy to take advantage of, so he promises, while tracing bruises and bite marks across his exhausted partner's back with his fingertips, to always be there for him, too. Whenever he needs it. No matter the women and men who come and go in their lives, he'll always love Starsky. Starsky never seems sure of that, so he'll do his best to prove it to him, even if it takes until they're 80 for him to believe it.

“Thanks, Starsk. I needed that.”

He rearranges the blankets and pulls Starsky into his arms properly, so they can hold each other as they fall asleep, the way otters sleep holding hands so they don't drift apart on the water. “Night, Starsk.”

...

Starsky wakes up itchy, feeling gummy remains smeared over most of his front and setting into (and pulling) the hair on his chest, and when he leans back to investigate he regrets it, leaving several glued hairs behind and realizing exactly how many bruises he has, he groans. Everything feels gritty, and the blanket’s probably a loss. He smells like Hutch, Hutch smells like him.

“I hope your hot water heater is up to the task,” Starsky grunts, as he untangles himself from the blankets without even looking at the time. “C’mon Hutch, I’m using up all the hot water with or without you. And none of that ‘cold water’s good for the soul’ stuff, I happen to know that hot water is required to dissolve the proteins currently coating us both like a marinade.”

Starsky has never awoken before Hutch, so Hutch wakes up mad about it, and a little delirious and confused why Starsky is even awake. And then he realizes he’s sore and sticky, and groans. He has zero desire to go for a run today.

“I want a divorce,” he complains, but follows Starsky to the shower. What had he promised himself last night? To always _be there_ for Starsky—but he said nothing about not complaining. There is come gluing his armpit hairs together, and that’s a new low, though they must have been having a good time if it got all the way up _there_.

“Another one?”

“Right, but this is the last one.”

Starsky’s walking a little bowlegged, so Hutch is there to lean on. When they’re in the shower and filth comes off them practically in _clumps_ , Hutch laughs, “This is so gross.”

“It’s not the worst I’ve woken up to,” Starsky reassures Hutch, leaning on him and letting the hot water do all the work. He leans comfortably on Hutch, letting the kinks slide out of his muscles and the heat work away some of the ache in his bruises, before he swats Hutch on the butt, enough to make a big noise but not enough to sting. “You were awful mouthy last night, I think a little residue is what you deserve.”

Hutch hums, incensed by the slap to draw nearer to Starsky and put his arms around him. He points to a few distinctly mouth-shaped marks on his neck and shoulders and says, “Yeah, _mouthy_. I can see that.”

Starsky grunts, and lifts his hand to get a map of the bruises. “Can I borrow a turtleneck, by the way?”

There was, after all, such a thing as professional decorum, even if Starsky occasionally showed up to work in very short shorts, this was a little different.

Hutch jolts.

“Oh my God, today is _Tuesday_?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And a Happy Birthday to Cognomen from your RP buddy <3


End file.
